okay so this is the start of what i was working on in november. you don't have to read it if you don't want to.

The Last Pendragon

The church bell in the village began to chime. Charlotte made note of the page she was on before carefully closing the Book and sliding it into the special alcove under the counter. She got up and stretched before walking over to the cauldron by the window.

The fire was getting low. She stoked it. The mixture inside bubbled lazily, the colour of buttercups. She grabbed a nearby ladle and stirred it eleven times anticlockwise as her father instructed. Now for the tricky part.

There were three looking glasses in the shop. One by the live frogs and toads, one at the counter and one hanging directly above the cauldron. Years of trial and error had taught Charlotte that if she angled her body just so, her hands would be obscured from the glass by her tangle of orange curls.

With one furtive glance around the shop (it was still empty – big surprise), Charlotte dropped a single sprig of lavender into the cauldron.

It floated for a moment, the purple bright against the complimentary yellow, before it sank. Almost immediately the colour changed. It became richer and darker, like honey. The delicate scent filled the whole shop. The frogs' loud croaking settled.

With a self-satisfied smile, Charlotte walked back behind the counter and retrieved her Book. The cracked leather spine was soft. As she opened the Book, the pages seemed to whisper like they were welcoming her back. Charlotte didn't want to sit down anymore, her legs were still stiff, so she just leant on the counter and started to find her page.

The bell above the door rang.

Charlotte jumped. She hurriedly shut the Book and stowed it away again, trying to be careful even as her hands shook and her heart beat wildly. With it finally safe, she looked up and hitched her customer-friendly smile onto her face.

'Hello, welcome to Herb's Spices,' she said. 'Oh, it's you, Mrs Hubbary.'

Old Mrs Hubbary looked up from a sheet of paper and smiled a wrinkly smile. 'No need to sound so disappointed, Charlotte dear.'

Heartbeat now back to normal, Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron and left the counter. She glanced back once to make sure the Book was still hidden. It was.

'How can I be disappointed to see my favourite customer? Especially if she has what I asked for.'

Mrs Hubbary ignored Charlotte's pointed glance. Instead she breathed in deeply and smiled. 'Oooh.' She looked over at the cauldron still bubbling merrily. 'A perfect Thawelu. No wonder those frogs of yours are quieter than usual.' She shot Charlotte a glance. 'You've been stirring it?'

'Eleven anticlockwise stirs every hour.'

'And the fire is—?'

'Constant three sixty.' Charlotte sighed. 'Mrs Hubbary, did you find what I—'

But Mrs Hubbary raised a wizened hand. 'Poor little Toby is sick again. His allergies flared up and he caught the flu at the same time, can you believe? I know I need salt, but I can't quite remember which – oh.'

Before Mrs Hubbary had even finished her sentence, Charlotte had crossed the store to one of the many shelves, selected a small jar and brought it back.

'Smoked salt. Apple wood. Three pinches,' Charlotte said quickly. 'Any more tests today or can you answer my question?'

Mrs Hubbary took the jar. The deep lines on her face refolded into sadness. 'You're wasted in this village, Lottie. You belong in the city. You should be learning from the best witches, not me or your father.'

Charlotte ran a hand through her hair and huffed as her fingers got stuck in the curls. 'Yes, well, I'm not, am I?' She wrestled for repossession of her fingers. Finally free, Charlotte looked up only to find Mrs Hubbary holding out an umbrella. 'Is this—?'

'The umbrella of a teenager in love for the first time.' Mrs Hubbary nodded.

Charlotte took the umbrella gently, forcing herself not to snatch. As she held it in her hands, she swore she could feel it. The desperate longing and loneliness. This was exactly what she needed.

'You owe me for that.' Mrs Hubbary's voice followed Charlotte as she ran to put the umbrella behind the counter. 'It wasn't easy to find.'

Charlotte caught Mrs Hubbary's eye and grinned. 'I got a fresh-baked lot in the kitchen.'

Mrs Hubbary grinned back. 'Now that's what I like to hear.'

When Charlotte came back with three still-warm scones in a paper bag, Mrs Hubbary was at the counter with the jar of smoked salt and another of dried thyme.

'You didn't need help with that one then?' Charlotte teased as she rang up the purchases.

'Old age isn't consistent.' Mrs Hubbary raised her nose into the air.

Charlotte hummed in sarcastic agreement. 'Sure.'

Mrs Hubbary collected her change and bags and walked away. Her gaze lingered on the cauldron in the window, but then the bell tinkled and Charlotte was alone again.

She sighed. The tiny shop felt cavernous in that moment. The sound of her sigh got lost among the plants, the jars, the frogs. The twisting steam above the cauldron caught the sigh in its wispy fingers and didn't let go.

It was barely past eleven. Three hours since her father had left and six until he would be back. Alphonse Herb took his job of collecting fresh ingredients seriously. Too seriously for his daughter's taste. Especially because he wouldn't take her with him. But when he returned in the evening with arms full of sweet heather and earthy sage, Charlotte couldn't complain. Except when she did.

'But why, Dad?' she asked one night as they strung bunches of daisies ready to be hung in the drying room.

Her father heaved a long sigh. 'We're the Herb family. We're known for herbs. Ours is the best witch supply shop in the village.'

'It's the only witch supply shop in the village,' Charlotte muttered before saying louder, 'Then let me come with you. We can get more herbs with two more hands.'

'No.' He didn't turn to her. 'You need to watch the shop.'

'Just close the shop for a day. That's what other witches do.'

'And how do you know what other witches do?'

Charlotte bristled. So she hadn't left the village. So what? On those rare rare occasions visiting witches stopped through Little Forlington, Charlotte listened closely. They spoke of their local witch shops. They swapped gossip about names Charlotte didn't know. And, the conversations she listened to most closely, were about the capital city at the centre of the kingdom.

And now Charlotte was imagining the city. Sprawling twisted streets. A store selling herbs on every corner. And not just herbs, but cauldrons and brooms and familiars and books.

The bell over the door rang.

Charlotte jerked from her daydream. Two customers in one day? Now that was witchcraft.

The girl in the doorway was not someone from the village. A traveller then. She was alone but, Charlotte noted, barely older than herself. It wasn't fair. Where was this girl's overbearing father?

'Hello, welcome to Herb's Spices,' said Charlotte, trying not to stare too much. The girl just smiled and wandered over to a shelf. 'Can I help you with anything?'

'Not yet,' said the girl.

What a strange answer. Most people said yes or no. As the girl inspected jars and sniffed herbs, Charlotte took the opportunity to stare openly.

The girl was tiny, just able to reach the second shelf. Her cloak was fastened with a simple pin. She carried no bags and the pointed hat she wore was plain. So she wasn't ranked. This disappointed Charlotte, but only briefly. This was still someone new. Someone who had seen beyond Little Forlington. But how to start a conversation?

'Who are the witches in this village?' asked the girl, currently having a staring competition with a particularly grumpy-looking toad.

'Mrs Hubbary is our Official Village Witch,' said Charlotte, watching the toad swell indignantly at being challenged. 'And my father is a witch too. He owns this shop.'

'I see.' The girl left the toad and wandered over to the cauldron. 'And he's the one who brewed this Thawelu?'

'Yes.'

'You're sure?'

Charlotte swallowed thickly. 'Of course.'

The girl eyed Charlotte shrewdly before fixing her gaze on the looking glass above the cauldron. 'I see,' she said again before turning and walking briskly to the counter. 'I have a friend with a bad cough. What would you recommend?'

Reeling from the change in conversation, Charlotte could only stammer, 'What?'

'My friend has a bad cough. Her voice is always raspy. What remedy would you suggest I use?' And the girl affixed Charlotte with eyes so piercing they made goosebumps rise on Charlotte's arms.

'Um ... does your friend have a favourite tea?' Charlotte asked, doing her best not to look away from the girl.

'She is quite fond of Earl Grey.'

Charlotte crossed to a shelf full of hexagonal shaped jars. She lingered for only a moment before selecting the one she was looking for. 'She could try mixing honey with her tea. This is an orange blossom honey that pairs well with Earl Grey.'

'Oh, I just remembered,' said the girl, not taking the jar. 'My friend doesn't like tea at all. Is there anything else you have?'

Charlotte stared blankly. 'I'm sorry?'

The girl said nothing.

Was this another test? Was Mrs Hubbary behind this? Charlotte glanced instinctively to the window, half expecting to see the old witch lurking behind the glass. There was no one.

Another option was that this girl was playing a trick, perhaps hired by someone who didn't like either Charlotte or her father. Or she just had nothing better to do. In which case, Charlotte fumed silently, this girl didn't have any friends at all, let alone one with a bad cough.

Throughout Charlotte's pondering, the girl just stood on the other side of the counter, her gaze unwavering.

Fine, Charlotte thought eventually. She plonked the jar of honey on the counter, trying not to slam it down too hard. 'We also offer in-house remedies. Would you like me to make one?'

'Please,' said the girl. 'If you wouldn't mind.'

'It would be my pleasure,' said Charlotte, her lips barely moving.

The ingredients for a cough remedy were simple. It was the first recipe her father had taught her. Charlotte darted around the shop, barely having to read labels as she chose jars and herbs, tossing them into her individual-sized cauldron. As she worked, Charlotte could feel the girl's eyes on her back.

It wasn't until after Charlotte had added the peppermint oil that the girl spoke again.

'Is that it?' she asked.

'Almost.'

There were two more ingredients. Her father hadn't taught her them; Charlotte had found them in the Book. She crossed to the racks of dried herbs and picked three leaves from beneath the sign with a pinkish-white flower.

'What's that?' asked the girl as Charlotte added the dried leaves to the cauldron.

'Marshmallow.'

With all ingredients finally added (except one), Charlotte began mixing. A thick paste formed in the cauldron. It was a deep mossy green and smelt fresh and herby, like a forest before the rain. Charlotte scooped it up and rolled it between her palms, forming a ball about the size of a generous chocolate truffle.

'Finished?'

'Almost.'

The last ingredient was in a dusty box on the very top shelf behind the counter, only reachable with a ladder. This ingredient was rare, especially in the south, and her father didn't advertise them. Charlotte hesitated before taking one.

The girl leant over the counter to see what was in Charlotte's hand. 'What's that?'

'A fairy wing.'

Charlotte wrapped the cough remedy in the fairy wing. It glinted softly in the sunlight like a pearl. The girl smiled.

Before anything could be said, the bell above the door rang again.

Incredible. Three customers in one day. The world must be coming to an end.

The man in the doorway was tall. The cloak he wore was the colour of a raven's feathers, shimmering deep blue and purple in the light. He carried his hat instead of wearing it, which Charlotte observed was probably for the best otherwise it would be scraping the ceiling.

'Hello,' Charlotte managed to choke out. 'Welcome to—'

The man turned looked at her with eyes full of such disdain, Charlotte shut her mouth with a snap.

'Aoife,' said the man in a voice so deep Charlotte felt it in her bones. 'Why are you still wasting time here? That old woman was useless and our carriage driver says we'll miss the train if we stay much longer.'

'Oh, come on, Evander,' the girl – Aoife – said with a wide smile. 'You remember what we were told, right? In the sleeping village, she works —'

'I remember perfectly, thank you very much.' Evander's lip curled slightly. 'I just highly doubt there's anyone of worth in this village.'

Charlotte bristled slightly but didn't dare say anything.

Aoife's lips formed an exaggerated pout. 'You're being such a grumpypants today. It's only our first day out, why are you mad already?'

Charlotte didn't know whether to laugh or hide.

Evander's glare turned to pure flames. 'I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. As you so rightly pointed out, it's only the first day. And that means we have many more villages to search and – will you stop waving that in my face? What is it?'

Aoife was on her tiptoes and her hands barely reached Evander's chin. She was ginning again, though somewhat more smugly. From across the shop, Charlotte recognised what was in Aoife's hand. It glinted purple in the sunlight. Charlotte licked her lips.

'You know what it is.' Aoife rolled the cold remedy in her fingers before pressing it into Evander's hands. 'Go on. Tell me what you think.'

Evander sighed a loud, long-suffering sigh but nevertheless raised the remedy and began to peer at it. Charlotte watched nervously. Would he like it? Did she want him to like it? She swore the frown lines on his forehead changed from annoyance to curiosity. Evander turned to remedy over in his hands, held it up to the light and even sniffed it. Charlotte's palms began to sweat. She wiped them on her apron surreptitiously.

'Who made this?' said Evander, his voice quiet. In answer, Aoife just turned to face Charlotte. Evander followed her gaze. 'She did?'

Aoife tutted and shook her head. 'Don't be rude. Ask her yourself.'

With what looked like great difficulty, Evander turned to face Charlotte. 'Did you make this?'

Charlotte swallowed thickly. 'Yes.'

'What's your name?'

'Um ... Charlotte.' She wanted to die. Who forgets their own name?

There was something in Evander's eyes. If Charlotte had to guess she would say he was impressed, if begrudgingly. But that couldn't be right. She must be imagining it. It was quite possible she had hallucinated the whole interaction and would soon be back in an empty shop with no one to talk to but her reflection.

It was at this moment that Mr Herb entered the shop.

'Charlotte,' he called, banging about, 'help me out, would you? Watch out for the nettles, though. And then could you—' Mr Herb stopped speaking abruptly as the strange atmosphere finally registered. 'What's going on?'

Charlotte could only mouth wordlessly.

So Aoife stepped forward. 'Mr Herb,' she said smoothly, 'my name is Aoife and this is my associate, Evander. We work at the castle.'

Mr Herb was struck just as dumb as his daughter. Aoife seemed to be enjoying herself a bit too much.

Evander sighed. 'We need to see your security tapes.'

At those words, Mr Herb creaked back to life. 'Is there a problem?'

'Not really,' said Aoife with a smile.

'It depends,' said Evander with a frown.

Charlotte's head whipped between each adult. She had never seen her father so stiff. Aoife's smile just kept growing. Evander's face became more long-suffering. It was silent for a moment before Mr Herb nodded tightly, dumped the fresh herbs on the counter and lead the way to the little back room of the shop.

The smell of the fresh herbs brought Charlotte to her senses, if only a little. She followed behind Aoife and Evander.

The back room was small and cramped. Most of it was taken up by the stairs that lead to Charlotte and Mr Herb's bedrooms. The rest was home to a large looking glass split into three. It showed the shop from three different angles. Unable to squeeze into the room, Charlotte tried to peer around Evander's lanky frame.

'Show us this morning's footage,' Aoife said. And then, as an afterthought, 'Please.'

Silence. Charlotte chewed her bottom lip. What were they seeing? More importantly, what were they looking for?

'Now the footage from the last time you went out.' There was growing excitement in Aoife's voice and a sort of smugness.

Evander muttered under his breath.

It was quiet again. Charlotte's palms were sweaty so she wiped them on her trousers.

'That's enough.' Evander's defeated voice was all the warning Charlotte got before he was striding back across the shop to the front door. She scrambled out the way. Evander had one hand on the doorknob. 'Come on, Aoife. We should report back.'

Aoife walked out the room, arms swinging. Mr Herb followed, somewhat limply.

'Are you sure you don't want to see more?' asked Aoife, the smugness more pronounced.

Evander scowled and opened the door. The bell jingled.

Aoife laughed. 'Thank you for your assistance, Mr Herb.' She nodded to him. 'And I'll see you soon, Charlotte.'

As they left the shop, Evander glared at Aoife. 'You can't say things like that. You don't know.'

Aoife only smiled. 'I do.'

Charlotte met her father's eyes. 'What was all that about?' he said.

As Charlotte half-predicted, the Day of Three Customers didn't herald an exciting turn in life. The little hope she held for change was quickly squashed as the village of Little Forlington returned to its old sleepy rhythm. No one spoke of the carriage or the two city witches and Charlotte would have been inclined to believe she simply dreamt the whole interaction if it wasn't for the way her father looked at her every now and then. And the dusty box that was missing one fairy wing.

'Lottie, are you free?' her father called from upstairs and continued without waiting for an answer, 'The post should be here soon.'

Charlotte sighed, stretched and shouted 'Yeah!' before leaving the warmth of the shop to stand on its front steps and wait. Still, waiting for the post wasn't the worst job in the world. It always came on time.

The PostWitch descended from the sky right on schedule, leather jacket snapping in the wind. 'Charlotte.' They handed out a small stack of letters.

'PostWitch.' Charlotte took the letters and tried not to stare too much.

The PostWitch smiled and shook their head slightly. 'Still no broom?'

Charlotte bit her lip. 'Are you sure I couldn't borrow yours? Just for a day. I won't break it, I swear.'

'Tut tut.' The PostWitch wagged a finger. 'I thought you knew better than that. Enjoy your letter.'

And with that, the PostWitch flew back to the sky. Charlotte wished she could go too. Even if the job of delivering letters didn't sound especially glamourous, at least the PostWitch got to see different places and meet new people. But her father would never let her have a broom. At school, the teachers said only delinquents or daredevils rode brooms. Their usage was strictly monitored. So Charlotte had done her own research. Her Book had detailed instructions on how to enchant one's own broom, but the ingredients were either too rare or too much of a giveaway. Mrs Hubbary might be good for the emotive ingredients but she wouldn't give Charlotte wood from a broom tree or dragon's breath.

Crumpling up her disappointment and tossing it with the ever-growing pile of other disappointments, Charlotte walked back inside and tossed the letters onto the counter. "Enjoy your letter," the PostWitch had said. Charlotte snorted. She never got any letters.

The day passed as all Charlotte's days did – that is to say, slowly. When it finally came time to close the shop, her father stumped down the stairs looking distinctly rumpled. As Charlotte completed her duty of feeding the frogs and toads, she gave him a lot of space. He was always like this after doing paperwork all day.

'Do you want me to cook tonight?' Charlotte asked tentatively. 'Dad?'

Her father looked up with a jerk. 'What?'

'I asked if you wanted me to cook tonight.'

'Oh.' A very long pause. 'That would be nice.'

They both went upstairs and Charlotte headed straight to the kitchen. If she was being honest, she only knew how to cook four dishes. But they always turned out well (Mrs Hubbary was especially fond of her scones) so Charlotte wasn't bothered.

'Wait!' Her father's shout made Charlotte drop the wooden spoon. 'Did I lock the door?'

Charlotte shook her head as her father clattered off down the stairs. He was usually so meticulous, scolding her for minuscule deviations in potions or weights, but when Alphonse Herb was tired, he could get lost in a corridor with one door.

He roused slightly over his bowl of tomato soup, though.

'Don't think I didn't notice,' he said.

'Notice what?' said Charlotte, fingers tightening on her spoon even as her tone stayed innocent.

'That Book of yours out on the counter.'

Charlotte swallowed thickly, soup turning to cement. 'But we were closing and—'

'I'll take it off you. Don't think I won't.'

'Yes, Dad.'

The Book in question was the only thing keeping Charlotte attached to sanity. She had no idea where it had come from and her father never said, but it had always been unequivocally hers. The Book had once had a title – Charlotte could make out slight indents in the leather cover and what could have been a name scrawled on the inside cover – but they had long since faded. So it was simply The Book.

It was a witch's book, the kind that had been passed down from generation to generation, each new owner making their mark on its pages. Charlotte had poured over it for years but always found something new, whether it be an addition to a potion, a different pronunciation for a spell or the way to speak to your plants so they would grow beautifully. As such, it was incredibly valuable. And that's why it had to be kept hidden.

At least, that's what her father said. But sometimes Charlotte wondered. There were times when she caught her father looking at The Book like it had stolen something precious from him. Like he blamed it for something. Like he hated it.

But there was nothing inside The Book to suggest such a thing. So Charlotte loved The Book and The Book loved Charlotte, always allowing her to find its secrets.

'Oh, and you forgot your letter,' her father's voice roused Charlotte from her thoughts and he tossed an envelope across the table.

Charlotte stared at the envelope blankly. It was like she had never seen one before today. The ink that wrote her name and address still shone with the light of a warding spell. That, along with the thick heaviness of the paper, gave away the envelope's high-class beginnings. And now it was here, in Charlotte's tiny kitchen. It was like seeing jewels being seen in a barn. And not one of those nice fancy barns, but one that's roof was falling in and had rats scuttling in the corners.

Hand just barely trembling, Charlotte reached to take the envelope. She ignored her father's eyes. She ignored the satin smooth feel of the paper. She tried to ignore the elaborate wax seal holding the envelope shut. She failed. The sound that came from her lips wasn't quite a squawk, not really a yelp, but somewhere in between. A squelk, perhaps. Or a yawk. Neither were particularly dignified.

It was the royal crest. The same one that everyone saw on coins. Stamped onto rich red wax. The crest was accompanied by words the whole kingdom was taught as children. Gæð a wyrd swa hio scele. Fate ever goes as it must.

The seal was snapped with one jerk of a finger.

Charlotte pulled the letter out, trying desperately not to rip it. It was made of the same satiny soft paper as the envelope. She was so out of sorts that it took several minutes for Charlotte to read the words and several more minutes for her to understand their meaning.

Dear Charlotte Herb,

Preliminary interview conducted by Aoife Culhane and Evander Byrne.

Results: successful

Second interview: 25th June

Please report to the castle on the above-mentioned date at 9am promptly.

Interviewees are permitted to bring one witch book, familiar or wand.

If you do not attend, your spot will be forfeit. No second chances are given.

Sincerely,

Morgana Highworth

Head of Admissions

The first thing Charlotte thought to say was, 'Oh. That's a short letter.' Quickly followed by, 'What?' And then, very loudly, 'To the castle?'

She looked to her father, heart beating so hard it felt like it was repeatedly throwing itself against her ribs. The letter shook in her hand.

And her father just sat there, calmly finishing his soup.

'Will you say something?'

He soaked up the last of his soup with teared off chunks of bread roll before meeting Charlotte's eyes deliberately. 'Congratulations.'

'What?' Charlotte blinked, accidentally scrunching the letter. 'Dad, I don't understand. What—?'

'Isn't this what you've always wanted?' he said, still infuriatingly calm. 'To leave?'

A strange feeling of guilt and shame flooded Charlotte's stomach. It didn't mix well with tomato soup. 'I don't want to leave. I just want to – to, like, visit. Maybe go into town on a day trip. I'd still come home.'

'Would you?'

Charlotte opened her mouth and closed it again. The 'yes' had gotten stuck in her throat and refused to move.

'Lottie, sweetheart, it's okay.' Her father smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 'You've got to go. No second chances, right?'

'But ... but I don't even know what it's for.'

'Oh, come on,' he groaned and sat back in his chair. 'Everyone knows about the castle witches.'

'Well, yeah, but I didn't think they'd check here.' A tiny, middle-of-nowhere village with one witch supply shop. Charlotte paused and looked in her father's eyes carefully. 'You knew what this letter was, didn't you? How?' But before he could reply, she sucked in a quick breath. 'You've seen one before.'

Her father didn't meet her gaze. Instead, he stared at the kettle like he had never seen one before. 'Once. A long time ago.' And he added, so quietly Charlotte didn't know if she'd heard correctly, 'No second chances.'

'Who—?'

'Right!' Alphonse Herb leapt to his feet and clapped his hands. Charlotte jumped. 'There's a lot to do if you're heading off to the castle in – cripes! The 25th? That's three days away. You need a suitcase of some sort. And I suppose you'll need a hat and cloak of some sort. I wonder if Mrs Hubbary has one your size?' Still, muttering to himself, he bustled from the kitchen.

Charlotte was left alone with only the letter and two bowls for company. Moving stiffly, she set about cleaning the remnants of dinner one handed. Her fingers refused to let go of the letter like they had been stuck with a strong sticking spell.

Was she happy? She couldn't tell. There were so many emotions zipping through her body that none were easily identifiable. Especially as they kept bumping into and blending with each other like watery paints. But she was sure that, as she rhythmically scrubbed a dish, the emotion that made her toes curl and her stomach clench so deliciously was excitement.

—

Alphonse paused at the top of the stairs, listening closely. Slow, deep breaths punctured by little snores crept from under Charlotte's door. She had taken the letter with her, so Alphonse had nothing but himself to take. He swept his warn cloak around his shoulders and hurried through the dark shop with well-practiced steps that avoided squeaking floorboards and waking the frogs. A whispered silencing spell was all that was needed to quiet the bell above the door. He wouldn't be gone long.

Despite the lateness of hour, Mrs Hubbary's lights were on. He ducked under the flowery arch at her gateway and hurried up the front path, not stopping to admire the impressive garden as he liked to do (he was a plant specialist, after all). Even so, he could not help stopping to appreciate the gardenias at her front door. Mrs Hubbary's specialist branch of encouragement magic was something to behold. Even at a time like this.

Alphonse raised his fist to knock and the door opened before he could.

'So,' said Mrs Hubbary in a set of flowered pyjamas without preamble, 'it came.'

'Yes.' He nodded unnecessarily.

Mrs Hubbary turned and led the way to her kitchen where a teapot and two teacups were waiting. There was also a glass bottle of some deep butterscotch colour that Mrs Hubbary poured a healthy glug of into each cup of tea.

They drank deeply in silence. Alphonse drained his cup and immediately poured himself another that was more alcohol than tea.

'Her sixteenth year,' he said, taking a pause in drinking. 'It came faster than I thought.'

'I did try to tell you so.' Mrs Hubbary set her teacup into its saucer with a sigh. 'No matter how much you tried to remain indifferent, you are in possession of a soft heart, Alphonse Herb.'

'You didn't do any of your magic, did you?'

Mrs Hubbary scoffed. 'Of course not, you daft man. I don't have enough power to influence feelings. Especially not of someone as stubborn as you.'

Alphonse put his cup down before he snapped the handle. But his hands started shaking and he felt if he didn't have something to hold onto then his body would come apart. So he clasped his hands so tightly together that he felt his nails digging into the skin.

'There, there.' Mrs Hubbary's wizened hand patted his arm. 'It won't be much longer now.'

The words seemed to echo in the spaces between them. They sounded eerier than usual in the homeliness of Mrs Hubbary's kitchen. The words that had cost Alphonse everything to get.

This Daughter of Hidden Blood,

whose power is unknown,

in her sixteenth year

will bring the Lost Ones home.

In the middle of sixth month,

sleepy village comes undone.

'Beware, beware', the stars cry out.

'The last Pendragon has come.'

'The Lost Ones,' Alphonse muttered. 'She has to be—'

'Alphonse,' said Mrs Hubbary sharply, 'careful. Unless you want to go about the same way?'

'Right. You're right.' Alphonse shook his head to dislodge the distracting thoughts. 'Fate ever goes as it must.'

'That's right. Now, you should get home.' Mrs Hubbary started to chivvy him to the door. 'You don't have much time to spend with Charlotte now. Don't waste it on me.'

And as Alphonse made his way home, he tried to take comfort in the same words as he had done his whole life. As everyone in the country did. Fate ever goes as it must. As it must. But they seemed empty now.

'Please,' he said to whoever would listen to a barely ranked witch who had made a dumb mistake, 'let her come home.' An image of Charlotte's cheeky grin swam in his mind and he changed his prayer. 'Let them both come home.'

so if you have any feedback i'll love you forever. if you even read this far i'll love you forever.

okay see you next chapter 💕